What She Left Behind by Tracy Bilen Page A

daughter! But instead she puts her arms around Ramón and says, “Thank God I still have you!”
     
    When my dad gets home, he hangs his baseball cap on the peg in the kitchen, adjusts the sugar canister slightly to the right, and evens the blinds.
    “Did your brother call to say when he’d be home?”
    Here we go again. Yes, but the cell-phone reception from heaven sucks. Usually my mom just changes the subject. And me? What does my stupid, messed-up, sleep-deprived brain whisper to me? Two can play this game. So I say, “Yeah, he said he’d be back after play rehearsal.”
    Wrong move.
    “Not that stupid god-damned sissy-ass play again! I told him he had to quit. What the hell is he still doing at rehearsal? You call him and tell him to get back here right now.”
    In my imagination, I run to my room, grab Sam, and fling myself onto my bed. In real life, my heart beats faster and faster and faster and I can’t move.
    “Well? What are you waiting for?” Dad yanks the portable phone off the wall and flings it at me. “Dial!”
    I dial my mom’s cell. When the voice mail picks up I say, “Matt, Dad says you have to come home. Right now.”
    Satisfied for the moment, he stalks off.
    I get out the can opener and try to open a can of corn. My hands won’t stop shaking. I twirl my ponytail.
    “Sara!”
    I drop the can opener on the counter.
    “Get in here!”
    I follow my dad’s shouts to my parents’ bedroom. The bed is crooked and all of the covers have been ripped off.
    “Where are my cigarettes? I left a pack here on the nightstand.”
    I feel like I’m going to pee my pants. I hope the pack I found under the bed isn’t poking out of my pocket. I don’t dare look down to see.
    “I don’t know.”
    “What do you mean, you don’t know? What’s that glass doing over there?” He points to the glass of water I left on the dresser. “What were you doing in my bedroom?”
    “Nothing.” My voice comes out quiet and not very confident.
    Towering above me, he stinks of cigarettes and a trace of beer. Great. He grabs my shoulders and starts to shake me. “Answer me, young lady!” Then he looks down and sees it. “What the—?” He yanks the pack of cigarettes out of my pants pocket and pushes me into the wall.
    “What are you doing with these? My own daughter, stealing from me? What were you going to do with these? Huh? Huh?”
    Why is this happening to me? I feel like I must be in a dream, and I’m desperate to wake up. I can’t answer. I know that whatever I say will be the wrong answer. So I just shake my head as the tears stream down my face.
    Then he takes out a cigarette and rams it up against my lips.
    “You want to know what it’s like to smoke a cigarette? Is that what you want?”
    I shake my head from side to side.
    “Is that what you want? Huh?”
    When I open my mouth to say no, he shoves the cigarette in and squeezes my lips closed. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out his lighter.
    This can’t be happening. I’m the Watcher. Invisible. I’m supposed to be left alone.
    He flicks the lighter open. There’s a metallic clicking sound andthen a flame dances above me. I freeze. He lights the cigarette and I try not to breathe in but it’s no use, and pretty soon I’m choking and gagging. Finally he lets me go and I crush and pound the cigarette into the ashtray.
    Then he’s gone. The truck door slams, tires squeal, and gravel pings against the siding. I can’t stop my own thoughts—I wish he would drive the truck right into a tree.
    I pick up the cigarette and try to tear it into bits. Only, cigarettes are a lot tougher than they look, so I grab a pair of scissors and I cut and cut until all of the cigarette guts are in the toilet, and I flush.
    I know I should leave. Leave this house. Leave Dad. Leave this life. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know what happened to Mom.

CHAPTER 6
     
Thursday
     
    T he free-writing topic for English class is “Shopping.”
    “How